


what the dead leave behind

by athousandsatellites



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loss of Identity, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Pre-Time Skip, spoilers for White Cloud route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-24 19:10:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20912672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandsatellites/pseuds/athousandsatellites
Summary: The Holy Tomb, a different revelation.





	what the dead leave behind

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A slight edit for clarification purposes.

It is their dreams given form.

Stone walls and crumbling ruins. Shadows cast by embers of green and blue, dancing over coffins and waiting, watching. A far off voice singing in their ears; a melody long since lost.

A throne awaits.

Lady Rhea leads the way, but Byleth has walked this path countless times. The stone sigil is unmistakable even from this distance.

Byleth glances over their shoulder, glowing wolf eyes kept trained on their students. Behind them, the dark edges closer. Byleth keeps a hand on the Sword. Though Lady Rhea dictates this ground sacred, the stench of death lingers.

Byleth notices ivory white trailing behind. Edelgard has not spoken since entering the Holy Tomb. Byleth’s jaw tightens, hackles rising. 

Something is wrong.

They arrive before the stone throne with little fanfare. Byleth hears the students murmuring amongst themselves, the chambers echoing with their awe. But the silent melody drowns all, and clouding. Byleth stares at the throne. Time pushes at their back and the engraved sigil—the Divine Pulse—pulls like Death’s crooked finger.

“Do you know this place Professor?” Rhea watches her, patient but for the hunger in her eyes.

Byleth responds. Or thinks they do. The melody is louder now. Truly, the others must hear it too?

“Sit upon the Throne,” the Archbishop commands.

Sacred ground shifts and shakes underneath. Byleth climbs the steps, vertigo blurring the edges of their vision. Something _ reeks_. Dust and dirt masks the squander of old blood. Their vision blurs, shadows and flames at the edges; waiting. 

As Byleth stops and turns to rest, bright green catches a glimpse of lilac hues. Edelgard stands at the bottom of the stairs, eyes narrowed, jaw taut. White satin is spread thin over slender knuckles. Suddenly, Byleth wants nothing more than to run down the steps and away from the bones of the dead.

The Sword of the Creators hums against their hip.

“Sit, please.”

A force upon their shoulders and Byleth drops onto the stone. A chill settles deep in their bones. It’s confusing; abnormal. They never notice the cold. Hot winds and murky waters have been nothing more than minor obstacles. They’ve walked through rain and hail without slowing.

But _ this! _

This is a hand slicing through coat and cloth, skeletal and icy. Byleth holds their breath. The melody reaches a crescendo. A hand curls around their neck. Byleth blinks, stares into the dark, and a starry wolf-eyed gaze stares back.

Strange. Byleth swears it’s the gaze of a little frightened girl. Fingers twitch and lift.

Then nothing.

The world slams back into focus, dark and flame-lit. Byleth is hunched over, gasping. Below, the students are moving, muttering, and crowding around Lady Rhea.

Those eyes pierce into Byleth, watching.

_ Waiting. _

It reeks of rotting corpses. Byleth averts their gaze, searching for crimson. Pale eyes meet theirs and the relief in them is a balm, an oasis, amongst dust and dried bones.

Byleth stands, throat dry and sore. An intense longing for a cup of bergamot tea rises in their gullet. Seteth is trying to calm the anxious crowd of students. Lady Rhea, on the other hand, merely gazes at the throne, mourning in her eyes. Byleth catches the tail end of her words.

“What am I _ missing _?”

Then everything spins and holy ground meets the side of their head. 

Byleth’s vision twists and blurs and someone screams. Shapes move forward and they blink once, twice, but the shadows in each corner creep ever closer. Iron is hot on the tip of their tongue and mud-thick.

“Professor!”

Byleth tries to lift their head. Something wet drips down their temple and a deep pressure constricts in their chest. Skeletal fingers claw up muscle and sinew, searching. Byleth breathes and tastes iron again. 

The stench of death is closer than before.

_ “You must fight it!” _

That voice—_ her _ voice. The recognition brought them almost to tears.

Byleth groans and pushes onto their elbows, shivering from pins and needles. The melody returns. It sings and rings and whispers.

Green eyes stare them down, alight with anticipation.

Byleth’s strength gives out and the holy ground sends their thoughts spiraling again. 

The shape of the students sway, held back. A delicate red flower tries to move closer.

_ “You cannot leave them. Not yet.” _

Byleth’s fingers twitch and they try to speak. Their chest is heavy, breathing harsh. The Holy Tomb is colder, it’s cavernous halls shrinking around them. All that can be seen are shadows; hues of gray. Even the melody grows softer.

_ “Rest. I will look after them all.” _

_ Wait, _ Byleth thinks, eyes screwed shut, _ please let me stay! _

A starry hand strokes through bloodied locks. A hush and Byleth’s eyes prickle with heat. 

_ “Sleep.” _

Red and black bloom in the darkness. 

Edelgard.

Like fire, she bursts into Byleth’s vision.

“Professor!”

She sounds faraway. Byleth’s eyes are heavy. Crumbling, bony fingers and green eyes clasp them shut.

“Professor! Professor, please open your eyes! Please, don’t—“

Byleth has never heard Edelgard cry before. Such a terrible, beautiful sound.

_ “Sleep,” _ the Voice whispers again. _ “You will be with me.” _

Byleth lets out a breathy gasp, tries to open their eyes again.

_ “I never wanted this…” _

Finally, everything goes dark.

* * *

Edelgard’s scream dies in her throat as their teacher—_ her _teacher—stills. Her hand, stretched as far as it can go, falls to her side. She goes limp in Seteth’s grip. As if from far away, she can hear the others speaking.

“Lady Rhea, what’s happening?” Seteth asks. 

Archbishop Rhea had remained silent throughout the entire scenario. Unmoving, save for the look in her eyes. 

Edelgard turns slowly to the Archbishop, as if her whole body is made of creaking gears and old bones. Distantly, she can hear Bernadetta crying and Caspar screaming, held back only by Catherine’s strong arms. At the corners of her vision, she sees Petra’s shadow, still cradling Dorothea; both of them brought to their knees. Hubert remains by Edelgard’s side, knuckles white from the death grip he holds on his hidden dagger. 

“Lady Edelgard,” he whispers in her ear, voice low and seething, “will you give the word?”

Edelgard’s eyes fall back to the Professor.

No, she thinks, eyes hot and watering. It’s only her dear teacher’s corpse now. A shell of the person she had cared for. Someone she had hoped to walk besides. Edelgard’s eyes flicker towards Rhea.

The Archbishop.

That _ vile beast. _

The woman who has stolen the last light of hope in Edelgard’s life. Who stands there with a vacant smile as the people around her questioned and cried. Edelgard’s blood turns to ice and her fury returns. Clenching her teeth, she hisses, “Hubert, it’s time—”

The corpse stirs before she can finish.

Suddenly, the Holy Tomb is silent.

Edelgard pauses, eyes widening as her teacher rises to their feet. They stumble, knees wobbling. A choked noise leaves Edelgard’s throat as they clutch at their head. She wants to run to them. Throw her arms around them and hold on for dear life. Edelgard trembles as she pulls away from Seteth’s slackened grip. Her footsteps are heavy amongst the stone and loud in the darkness. Each inch is a mile between her and her teacher.

“Professor?” Edelgard whispers. She’s breathless, heart racing and fragile hope rushing through her veins. A white-gloved hand reaches out, shaking.

Green eyes meet hers through bloodied, unkempt bangs. 

Edelgard’s heart stutters, stops, and drops to the floor.

She thinks, tears beginning to spill, how cruel it is that not even bones are left.

Nothing left to bury.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I’m extremely unsatisfied with the end result, but I decided that posting this instead of fiddling with it further was the best course of action. I don’t believe I did the concept justice, but I hope someone enjoys my take on “if the Holy Tomb scene had gone differently.”
> 
> 10/9/19 EDIT: Changed a line to try and make the ending a bit clearer. I apologize to all for the confusion and for the record, it is Sothis that inhabits Byleth's body at the end, but since the last scene is depicted from Edelgard's POV, I wanted to portray it as a truly horrific turn of events. Hence the likening to a corpse or nightmarish entity.


End file.
